Linnea Sinharoy
I walk down the road the morning after, sweaty, dried saliva coating my mouth and refusing to be swallowed away. Head down, I avoid the gaze of any one of the many early morning athletes bounding by in their flashy yellow jackets, their watches the size of iPads and high ponytails swinging aggressively back and forth as they run.
Finally, I approach the destination. A whiff of cheap croissants makes my stomach turn. An old, raggedy-looking guy sitting outside the shop catches my gaze while sipping his 10 a.m. beer, and my future flashes before my eyes. Inside, refusing to pick up a basket, I load anything oily into my arms: eggs, bacon, hash browns, ice cream. I also grab a ginger lemon shot, a bag of kale and some blueberries to counterbalance. I remember to get a bag of cat litter –the last thing I want to deal with today is Lou Lou’s pee on my carpet. The tea aisle is a noisy whirl of reproaches. “Inner harmony: Gentle, careful, balanced, thoughtful”. I grab two boxes. I figure it’ll take more than one to undo the damage of the night before.
Having declined to look at my bank account this morning, I head for the cash line, a stash of two Euro coins jiggling in my pocket. The lady looks me head to toe and mutters, “Dumb bitch, where’s your head at?” Shocked, I look at her, and I can feel heat crawling up my cheeks.
“I said, do you want your receipt?” I shake my head, both to signify no, I really do not want the receipt and no, I have not yet recovered my sanity. I load the goods into my tote bag and stumble back out, dropping the rest of my coins into the beer man’s empty cup without looking at him.
As I head back to my flat, I squeeze past the Sunday morning market-goers heading to the open air stalls to browse and enjoy the sun on their faces. I yearn to be one of them, but instead my head starts pounding, my forehead constricts and a tense pressure builds from my neck to the top of my head. I pop an Ibuprofen and chug my ginger shot, leaning on the railing of the canal to watch the seagulls fight over scraps of fries. Their screams are familial, the larger birds bullying their little brothers and snatching food from under each other’s beaks. I contemplate them as I consider how my own genes have led me to this moment in time, sweating vodka from my pores as seemingly happy-go-lucky, functioning members of society swarm around me.
I think about that one time I drank too much at a party, took a bong rip, threw up two bowls of blue cheese pasta all over the bathroom floor, and closed the door. The next morning, after gagging while cleaning up the crusted toilet seat, I went home, showered, and got ready for the next party. On the other hand, when my mom was my age, she arrived at a party, had one beer and a cigarette on an empty stomach and promptly threw up over the side of the porch into an awaiting bush. The host’s dad later remarked, “At least the girl’s got good aim.” In the thirty years since, she’s limited herself to no more than three drinks an evening. Clearly, my mom and I are two women who love a potentially lethal situation. What sets us apart is she knew when to stop. I clearly have yet to learn.
In the years since I’ve moved out from my family home, my mom has never guessed the extent to which I’ve partied –the bruises I’ve gotten from falling down club stairs, the cans and ash that have littered my apartment floor, the hungover days spent smoking joints and hopping up only to greet the Domino’s delivery man at 4 p.m. And she never will.
As I’m watching the seagulls and fighting the receding headache (thank you, NSAIDs!), I realize I have to piss. Really badly. And there’s no way I’ll make it back to my house in time. I glance up and down the canal, clenching tight and trying to spot a secluded bush. Running along the water, I head to a spot under a bridge and pull my pants down around my ankles, clutching my bag of groceries in my arms. A seagull flies past and I whip my head out of its way. I collide with a passing boat’s hull, my vision flashing in a burst of red. As I tumble into the murky water, I hear a loud rip. I frantically pedal up to break the surface, gasping for air. Soggy caterpillars of cat litter and herbal tea bags encircle me. The boat heads downstream, its little flag winking out of sight, and I hear a blonde, white-shirted man say to his equally blonde, sunglassed counterpart, “Some people just don’t know how to act normally, do they?”
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